


The Runaway

by if_i_go_there_will_be_trouble



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Lots of Cursing, but like, cursing, deals with mental illness, deals with suicide, has a suicide attempt, has depression described and explored, sex too, that's there a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/if_i_go_there_will_be_trouble/pseuds/if_i_go_there_will_be_trouble
Summary: You leave home, much to your brothers’ discontent, to live by yourself and get through your depression.  That’s when you meet the consulting criminal.  The one, the only, the damn Moriarty.





	1. It Might Be Best to Leave

I should have known he’d come looking for me. Of course he would. I knew both of them would. But Mycroft would do it first, or so I thought. But it had been a week. A blissful week without the constant pestering. This psychiatrist appointment, then one of them would disagree with their methods or medicines, and I’d be off to another appointment. I learned to just accept it for the most part. Until I met the most recent doctor.  
“How are you?” She had asked me, pen at the ready.  
“Fine.”  
“You know what fine stands for?”  
I shook my head.  
“Fucked-up, insecure, neurotic, emotional. So are you fine?”  
I glared at her. “I’m doing well.”  
“You know what well stands for?”  
I shook my head again, crossing my arms.  
“It’s what my patients tell me when they’re told about what I think of ‘fine’.”  
“I guess I’m just you’re average patient then.”  
“No, not at all.” She responded.  
“And why’s that? Have to do with my brothers?”  
“Exactly,” she said, “your brothers are very,”  
“What? Clever? Brilliant? Successful?”  
“Toxic.” She finished. “Your brothers are toxic.”  
I stared at her for a moment or two. “But they love me.” I returned.  
“Do you ever think of moving away, (y/n)? Maybe getting a place of your own? I mean you are an adult. You know they couldn’t legally force a twenty year old to stay at home.”  
“They could if they wanted to. You don’t know my brothers.”  
She looked up at me, and I slouched further down into the chair, but met her gaze with equal intensity. “I don’t know your brothers. But I’m not changing your medication. I’m not going to give you any more advice. I’m not going to tell you it’ll be okay and there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. We make our own lights, and our own tunnels. Maybe you should wake up and get out of yours.”  
“You make me sound like Alice.” I threw back.  
“I’m just suggesting you think about leaving. Nothing more or less. Consider it. And call me if you need me,” she added. She handed you a business card. Then there was a knock at the door. Damn it, Mycroft, I thought. He entered without being invited in.  
“What’s the diagnosis, Dr. Zimmerman?”  
“Nothing you haven’t heard before,” I said, trying to keep calm. My mind was whirring. And I knew Mycroft could tell. He always knew. He and that damn Sherlock always knew.  
“Major depressive disorder, PTSD, dissociative disorder,” she replied.  
“And the care you decided on?”  
“What are you expecting?” She responded.  
Mycroft looked a little taken aback. Information, especially information about me, was something he was almost never denied. “What do you mean?”  
“What exactly has been asked of you to do for her before?” She clarified.  
I answered. “Inpatient, residential care, outpatient intensive group therapy, individual therapy, partial hospitalization, and all the drugs.”  
“I would keep her on the abilify and Prozac, and other than that I would suggest you try family therapy.”  
“Family therapy?” Sputtered Mycroft. He quickly regained the little composure he lost.  
“It’s therapy for family.” She said, pointedly.  
“Yes, but why?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“Take my suggestion or not, you decide on your own. Either way your time is up.”  
That night I packed a suitcase. When Mycroft left for work in the morning, I set up my life. New number, new phone, job in London, apartment with controlled rent, insurance under my own name, and searched my car for trackers. I was being paranoid. But I couldn’t help it. I lived with the Holmes after all. I was a Holmes, after all. Even though I was the black sheep of the family. Imagine, I would often laugh to myself, a family of geniuses without much emotion and one odd sister with all the emotions. So many emotions it did what too hot water did to skin: burned you until all you felt was cold.  
I left a note, something simple, taped to the front door in scotch tape.  
“Dear Mycroft,  
I’m moving out. Don’t come looking for me, though I know you will. I will be safe. I will be careful. Maybe I will be happy. But let’s not bet on that, right? Jinxes it. Anyway, much love. –(Y/N)  
I moved the next day, and for a week all I felt was peace. I worked at a book shop and read most of the day. The other bit I spent writing. Writing until my fingers ached, writing until there was no more that could be expressed, though there was always more to say.  
Then I heard a knock at the door and I feared the worst, expected the worst pretty much knew the worst was here for me. I took my time getting to the door as the knocks got more and more urgent.  
“Y/N!” My brother called.  
I was surprised. It was Sherlock. I was expected Mycroft. I took my time, setting the kettle on to boil and pulling out two mugs. I had the care to even buy both of my brothers’ favorite teas. Earle Gray and green tea.  
“Y/N! I know you’re there! You’re moving around and it’s your footsteps and open up!”  
Inpatient, I thought. He was always inpatient. I walked to the door and opened it up slowly, undoing the chain lock.  
“Good evening, Sherly.” I smiled.  
“Y/N!” He looked angry. No, not angry, my brother didn’t express that much emotion. He looked agitated, or even annoyed. Like when I stole he favorite puzzle box when we were younger.  
He looked me over and I could see his eyes narrow. I wonder what he would deduce from me. I was in my favorite sweatpants, stained from paint, but he would have known, just from the color palette and the fact with acrylic paint, I was not much good at my work. Bitten nails- anxiety. Bags under the eyes, I had been up late. Traces of makeup, I had been out last night. Chipped nail polish toes, I had been in high heels, closed toed, that chipped the polish a little around the pinky and big toes. More proof I went out last night. Messy hair- I hadn’t showered in two and a half days. No tangles that seemed too large- no recent night terrors. No new scars. Old ones that told a lot- too much in my opinion. I tried scar cream. I didn’t work. Clean tank top, I had not been painting recently. Bitten up lower lip- anxious about him showing up. Or Mycroft. Or in my worst nightmare, both. Burns that became welts on my shoulders. I smelled like cigarettes- menthol. I knew he could recognize it all. Every little bit. And I hated how used to it I was. I was used to being an open book. I was used to being readable to my brothers. And I hated it.  
“Won’t you come in?” I asked, standing aside to let the tall mop of curls into my apartment. Then I saw a shorter, almost blond man behind him.  
“Hello Y/N,” he said.  
“I didn’t buy your favorite tea.” I said.  
“What?”  
“I forgot to buy your favorite tea, should’ve known Sherlock would dragged you along.” I explained. You started walking, leading them to the kitchen. “I have Earle Gray, green tea, and chamomile.”  
“Earle Gray is just fine,” he smiled. John was always my favorite of my brothers’ friends. Not that they had many. But John was kind. He was kind and patient and clever. Not Mycroft and Sherlock clever, but all his kindness, his goodness? It made up for it tenfold.  
“Wonderful place you’ve got, y/n.” John commented.  
“Polite gentlemen are always welcome in my apartment,” I said, grinning.  
“So Sherlock better leave?” John joked.  
And I glanced over at my brother. He was scowling, lips pursed and his brow furrowed.  
“Get it out Sherlock,” I said. “Just speak.”  
“Y/N,” he started, his mouth working but no noises coming out.  
“That is often what people call me.” I joked.  
“You. You’re. Irresponsible.”  
“I’m awfully sorry if I caused any worry.” I said, honestly. “But I am not irresponsible. I have a home, look, or some piece of a home. And a job.”  
“You should be with Mycroft, getting better and ready for school.” He glared.  
“Because school was always at the top of both of your to-do lists. As I remember, you didn’t much like it, right?” I said.  
“But you’re different. You need to be in school.”  
“Different? From who? How so?” I volleyed back.  
“Different from Mycroft and me. You need to be at school. You need to be pulling yourself together. You need to be home and watched.”  
“Such a sudden interest in my life, Sherly,” I teased. I poured the hot water and handed him and Jon their teas.  
“I’ve always been interested in your life.” He threw at me.  
“Don’t lie Sherlock, it’s unbecoming.” I laughed.  
“But you need to be starting your life.”  
“That’s not how you started your life.” I pointed out.  
“But you’re different than me.” He said, an edge to his voice, “You’re-“  
“I’m what? What? Sherlock? Normal? Boring?” I remembered the insults from childhood. I would beg Sherlock to play, to talk, to help with my mounting problems. And now those problems were mountainous. And now I was a mess. But I was a normal, average, boring mess. ‘Garden-variety manic depressive’ I remembered. I winced.  
“You know what I mean.”  
“Not quite, Sherlock, not quite.” I responded.  
“You’re my sister.”  
“Detective, you’re reaching new highs in your ability to deduce.” I flared.  
“Sherlock, maybe you should tell her what you said to me.” John said.  
“No,” he said flatly.  
“Sherlock, stop being proud for one fucking moment.” John sighed, the words harsh but the tone caring. “He said-“  
“I said,” Sherlock interrupted, “Or I worried that you were dead.”  
The room went deadly quiet. And wouldn’t that be just boring, I wanted to spit, no culprit to even find, because they would all be able to figure it out, no case when it’s an obvious suicide. Instead I kept your peace.  
“What’s very kind of you Sherly,” I said. “Kind of you to be worried. But as you can see I’m-“ I was about to say fine, but I rethought, remembering the acronym. Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional. I was all those things. “I am doing well.”  
“You know Mycroft has been keeping tabs on you?” Sherlock said.  
“I figured.” I shrugged. I picked a pack of cigarettes off the table and flipped open the pack. I lit it with a book of matches. “Then you must have known I wasn’t dead, right? Or is Mycroft as uncommunicative as usual.”  
“I wanted to see you. Really make sure.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but his pupils dilated. The smell of the cigarette was getting to him. Thought he kicked that old habit, I thought. Maybe he didn’t kick it hard enough.  
I took a long inhale of the cigarette and nodded. It was very kind of him to make sure- really make sure. It was unexpected. It couldn’t be possible. “Mycroft told you to visit, didn’t he?”  
“No,” Sherlock answered. And I was taken aback. I looked him over a few times and nodded. He was telling the truth.  
“Then I really do thank you. I appreciate the gesture, I really do.” I turned over the thoughts in my head for a moment, like a child picking up seashells. I should do something kind in return, I thought. “Here, this is my number.” I put the cigarette down on the ashtray. “My new number. Easier than getting Greg to look it up.”  
“Who?” Sherlock asked.  
“Your local badge depot,” I laughed. I handed the number to him.  
“Y/N,” John put in.  
“Yes?” I responded.  
“I- we- want to see you. To calm my mind, you know?”  
I nodded, amiably. “You’re seeing me right now.”  
“I mean in the future. I mean once a week, at least, for a while. Just to make sure you’re-“  
“Doing well.” Sherlock finished. “Thank you for the tea, Y/N. We better be going. New case. Mutilated body in the morgue. Molly has us informed they have no leads.”  
“Have fun,” I said, leading them out of the kitchen. “And Sherlock?” He was almost out the door.  
“What, Y/N?”  
“Nothing.” I said. I wanted to give him a hug. But that seemed too- childish. “Nothing at all.” And I bolted the door.


	2. Irishman's Charm

The night before Sherlock had shown up, had been the best night I could remember having in a very long time.  I had gone out with my manager, Rachel, and got drunk.  We got very drunk.  Rachel started talking about home.  She started talking about her father, and his cancer, and how he laughed and how her mother danced and how her brother joked around.  And then I was talking, I was talking an awful lot.  I spoke about all the things I never got around to telling therapists or doctors, the things I wanted to forget and things I thought I forgot and the things I remembered so clearly it was like looking into the past with a crystal ball.  I told her about my first attempt.  And my second.  And my third. I told her about painting and writing and night terrors and what had happened.  I explained the burns, and she nodded, listening.  Listening was more than I expected.

              The next Monday, at work, she was organizing the books we had just stocked up on.  And I was working on fixing the coffee machine.  What a world this is, I thought, where even the coffee machine breaks down.  And in the morning too, when I really needed the coffee.

              “Y/N?”  She called.

              “Yeah, Rachel?” I called back to her.

              “Could you open the store up?  I think it’s almost that time.”  I checked my watch, 9:55.  She was consistently five minutes early.  

              A man walked in to the store, right before my break, and I shot him a smile and went back to my book.  He walked up to counter.  I set my copy of the Illustrated Man down and looked at him. “How can I help you, sir?” Polite, I reminded myself, strong and polite.

              “I’m looking for a copy of Dorian Gray.  Would you carry it, my dear?”  I looked the man over.  Business suit, which fit him well.  New, given the lacked of sewing to change the frame.  Tailored for sure.  Tasteful, I noted.  He smelled a little of cologne, some expensive thing I couldn’t place my finger on. He had brown eyes, like the soft dirt right under a patch of moss, like something could be planted and it would grow and grow and grow.  Little did I know it was insanity.  But other than that, he was unreadable.  Higher class, clean cut, but no distinguishing marks.  No stains, no scars, no anything.  Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough.  I never quite picked up Sherlock’s tricks.  

              “Right this way, sir.” I said.

              “Lead the way, love,” he said in a thick Irish accent.  I took him to the fiction section and handed him the book, a paperback version of it.

              “It’s worth a read, if you haven’t looked it over yet.”

              “I have, but why do you think so?” He barely looked up from the book I handed him.  I let out a little sigh.  

              “It’s about the folly of man.  About how perfection,” I said, thinking of my brothers, “is just fault.  It’s about how the world burns for men too lost in themselves.  It’s about how the clever,” I said, smiling to myself, “even the extremely clever, are nothing but common.  Ordinary.”

              He looked up at me, a flash of something in his eyes.  What was it?

              “Were you looking for anything else?” I asked.

              “No, my dear.  Just this.”

              I wanted to the front of the store and rang it up.  He paid with cash.  That was unexpected. I thought he would have some flashy credit card.  I turned and called to Rachel.  “Rache? I’m on my break!”

              “I’ll be at the counter.  Just go out and get your smoke.”

              “Angel,” I smiled, thinking of Rachel.  She really was an angel.  Kind people, I thought, kind people aren’t ordinary.  John wasn’t ordinary.  Sherlock, well, I had been building a thought and it broke down.  

              I stood outside the shop and lit a cigarette. I opened Bradbury’s book to my page and sat down on one of the metal chair we kept for summer visitors.  It made the book store/café look more inviting.

              “And what, exactly, do you think of ordinary people?”  The man from before was standing over me, looking down at me.  I took a pull on the cigarette and gestured to the chair next to me.

              “What do I think of ordinary people?”  I put my pack of cigarettes on one of the metal tables and thought for a second.  He took one from the pack without asking and lit it with his own lighter.  I shrugged off his taking of my nicotine.  

              “That’s what I asked.”  He said, pointedly.  

              “I think ordinary people, are, well,” I looked up at the sky.  It was cloudy, but still warm.  I was thinking hard.  I would give Sherlock’s answer to it first.  Then I would give Mycroft’s answer.  Then I would give mine, if the man stayed long enough.  “My brother, one of them, would say it’s like looking at a lesser species, a simpler one,” I winced, remembering when those comments were directed at my friends, or if I pushed Sherlock, to me, “they are good though, as my other brother would say, simple and adorable but good.  And I?  I wouldn’t say they are good.  I wouldn’t say they are lesser.  Because I am one of them, maybe.  I would say they are, we are, trying.  Desperately trying.  I don’t know if trying counts for anything, but it’s more than nothing.”  

              The man settled back in his chair.  “And what makes you think there are extraordinary people?”  I asked.

              “Because I am one of them.”  He replied, his voice factual.  

              “People have died because they believed they were so extraordinary.  Maybe you ought to read Dorian Gray again.  Really read it.”

              “And what makes you think you aren’t extraordinary?” He quizzed.  I looked over at the man as the sun his both of us.  He leaned forward, staring at me again.  There was that flash in his eyes again.  He leaned his elbows on his knees.  

              “What makes you think you are extraordinary?” I threw back.

              “Oh, darling, if I told you, you’d call the police.” He threatened.  I turned from him, looking out at the street.  

              “Try me, Irishman.” I said.

              “I’ve killed.”

              “That doesn’t make you extraordinary, Wendigo.” I stated.

              “I control.”

              “Do you control yourself well?  Because that,” I said, ashing my cigarette on the ground. “Would be extraordinary.”

              “What do you mean?”

              “People don’t control themselves well.  And if you want to extraordinary you have to be different than people.”

              “I control myself perfectly.” He clicked.  

              “Good for you, Dorian.” I responded.  “You’ve got something on the masses.  I’ll be sure to hold a press conference to tell the public.”

              The man smiled.  “So, why exactly, my dear, don’t you think you’re extraordinary?”

              “Because some has got to be ordinary.  And I never saw anything special in myself.”

              “I might.”  He flirted.

              “You might?” I looked over at him and blew out a plume of smoke.

              “In the right light.” He smiled.

              “I’ll make sure to stand in the dark then.  I don’t like people thinking of me too much.”

              “Oh, darling, I’ll be thinking of you a lot.”

              “Maybe,” I returned, standing up and putting my cigarette out, “I’ll do you the same favor.”  I turned to go inside, and picked up my book.  

              “Wait, sweetheart,” he said.  I liked the way he pronounced the ‘h’, long, with flavor.  

              “Yes, sir?”

              “What’s your name?”

              “Y/N Holmes.”  I offer, and go inside.  I watch him for a little from inside.  He sat there, looked around at the book shop window and glared.  I returned his stare.  Then he stood, took his mobile from his pocket, and dialed a number.  Then he stalked off.  What had upset him? I wondered.  My name.  My name had upset him.  I thought of it, and bit my lip.  Sherlock or Mycroft.  He didn’t like the last name Holmes.  It had to do with Sherlock and Mycroft.  And I hadn’t even gotten his name to ask either of them.  

              The next day he was back, and ordered a cup of black coffee.  He waited until my break before he spoke much to me.

              “Holmes, as in?” He asked.

              I lit a cigarette.  “As in Sherlock Holmes, the grand detective, and Mycroft Holmes, the lawful good.”

              “Of course.”  He murmured.  “Of course.”

              “What’s going on in that mind of yours?” I asked.

              “Let’s put it at I had a run in with Sherlock. Several run ins.  And that he wouldn’t approve of me being here.”

              “So you’re leaving?” I asked, slowly.  I stood up, as if to go.  I wanted to do the man a favor and take off before he had to.

              “No, my dear, no.  Why,” he smirked, “I imagine this will be an awful lot of fun.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back down into the seat.

              “I don’t usually like being touched,” I said. “Or, to be honest, used for annoying Sherlock.”  It had happened before.  A girl had wanted Sherlock for finding out who ‘stole’ her dog.  We dated for two weeks before Sherlock told her it had run away. Then she ran away.  From me, to be exact.  

              “And?” He asked.

              “I’ll excuse it this one time, Irishman.”

              “Irishman?” He inquired.

              “Unless you give me your name you’ll be stuck with pet names,” I replied.

              “No,” he smiled.  “I quite like it.  Irishman.”

              “Well, Irishman,” I said. I paused.

              “Well, Y/N.” He replied, trying to get me to continue.

              “If we’re going to be annoying Sherlock, for your sake and mine, let’s really annoy Sherlock.”

              “And how are we going to do that?”

              “Start,” I smiled, bold and forward, “by giving me your number.”

              “Quid pro quo, pet, quid pro quo.”

              “And what do you want from me?”

              “Simply?  A date. Friday night.  I want to take you out for a night on the town.”

              “And what will we be doing?”

              “What’s your dream, my pet?” He asked.  “Your dream excursion?”

              “See London, see London from somewhere I can smoke a cigarette and call the city mine.” I replied.

              He smirked.  “I could make London yours.”  He leaned forward, his eyes shining with possibilities.  He seemed on the verge of insanity, of complete insanity, ready to make London mine.  I didn’t want London.

              “Boring,” I replied, putting out my cigarette.”

              “Boring?”  He asked, pretending to be offended.”

              “Absolutely dull.  I don’t want to keep London.  I just want to think it’s mine for a night.”

              “Why’s that?” My Irishman asked, leaning even farther forward.  He was intrigued.  

              “Because, I don’t want to pick a flower: that kills the fun of having a garden.  I want it to grow despite me.”

              “You are something, aren’t you?” My Irishman asked.

              “Not really.” I replied.  “ ‘I am, I am, I am’.”

              “Sylvia Plath,” he caught on.

              “Only American author I really liked since Hemmingway.  And so, your number.” I said, putting out my hand.  

              He wrote it on a slip of paper and gave it to me. “That’s a very secure line. Untraceable.  Will always show up as ‘unknown name, unknown number’.”

              “You’re a continuing enigma, Irishman.” I said, standing up to leave.

              “And you’re yet to be dull.” He replied.  I took it as a compliment and went into the book shop.


	3. Rain Checks and Revenge

A text from Sherlock reached me Wednesday night, around 4 o’clock.  

             Come over. –SH

             I’m busy.  –(Y/N)H

             The landlord Mycroft paid off says you’re just in your apartment.  Can’t imagine you’re actually busy.  Come over. –SH

             He was right, the ass.  I was just washing paintbrushes after finishing my latest piece: the torso and neck of a naked woman amid a scene of clouds.  I loved the surreal.  I finished washing and got on different clothes.  It had been a long night.  A night alone.  My Irishman hadn’t texted me at all.  Not that I expected him to.  The most contact I had gotten was this:

             Hello.  It’s (Y/N). –(Y/N)H

             Will call, dear.  –Irishman

             Minimal. I was expecting that call, I was expecting it since Monday when we had texted. None what so ever.  I wished I had a name.  Something to slip into conversation with John to try and get a reaction- or something.  So I could understand who my Irishman really was.  But I would shrug my shoulders and solider on.  Life was like that often: full of secrets and enigmas and puzzles and I could never understand why Sherlock got bored of it.  Maybe because he solved all the puzzles that I still was tinkering with.  

             I walked the two kilometers to Sherlock and John’s apartment.  Cabs were always beyond my pay grade.

             I was unhappy Sherlock had called me out. Mostly for making me walk in the dark. I put a key between each finger of my fist.  Precautions, I said.  Paranoia, the therapists commented.  PTSD, simply. I didn’t want what he had done to happen again.  But I knew factually, it was more likely to happen with a friend.  Someone I trust.  Like I trusted him.

I stopped on the stairs to his apartment.  Mrs. Hudson was out, from the sound (or lack of sound) of it. I liked the woman a lot.  She often had plenty of good and true things to say. An abundance of love to give out, as John would often put it.  I couldn’t help but agree.

             I climbed the stairs to 221B and stood at the door.  I was about to knock when Sherlock opened it.  “You’re late.” He said.  I glanced around his apartment.  You could always see where he had been, like a hurricane.  Then you could see where John had been, tidying up after the storm. I spotted the dark, long coat I had given to him for his birthday years ago.  I had seen him wearing it in the papers with a deer stalker.  It made me happy, to think he was actually getting use out of it.  

             “You haven’t hung up your coat.  You just threw it on the couch.”

             “Hang it up in the closet if you’re going to be particular.” Sherlock said.  

“It cost me more than a few pounds.  You should hang it up, out of respect.”

He waved me off, as if to say ‘fuck off’.  So hung it up myself.  I took it from the couch and walked into the other room, going to the closet.  I opened the door and took down a hanger to put in its shoulders when I noticed something metal in the pocket.  I took it out and sighed.  It was Sherlock’s revolver.  I clicked open the cylinder lock and looked down at three bullets shining up at me. I pocketed the gun and the bullets, putting on the safety, in my pants waist, hoping my loose jacket and Sherlock’s inattention would conceal it.  

“Mind if I smoke, John?” I called out, calm, I chanted to myself, calm. I walked into the living room, tapping the pack on the back of my hand.

“Actually,” Sherlock interrupted, “I got you something.”

I stared at him, stopping in the middle of taking one of the thin sticks from the pack.  “Again?”

He tossed a box at me and I caught it. Nicotine patches.

I laughed, “Oh, Sherly, don’t you know you can’t fix my problems with any number of patches.”

“But you could fix your smoking problem.”  He said, almost with an edge.

“Smoking habit,” I corrected.

“Call it what you want.” He said.

“John, do you mind if I smoke?” I asked again, looking for the man himself.  He was hiding behind a newspaper in the corner, trying to give Sherlock and me some space.

“No, not really.  But I would try the patches, (Y/N).”

“Maybe tomorrow.” I replied, and lit a cigarette.  The room was quiet as I smoked it down to the filter.

“You know,” Sherlock put out, “if you smoke it close to the filter you get more toxins as it starts to burn the filter itself?”

“I know that,” I said.  I figured it out when Sherlock and I would stand outside during the holidays when we were younger, in complete silence, and Sherlock would stub it out early. I asked a doctor if there was any reason behind that.  I got a frank answer and a plea for me to stop smoking.  I didn’t stop, but I remembered.  

“So why do you smoke it down so far?” Sherlock asked.

“You know the answer to that, Sherlock.  Why are you asking me?”

“So you’ll have to say it aloud.”

“I want to get my money’s worth,” I lied, breezily.  

“Of course,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  

“I appreciate the gesture, again.” I said. “I will try them.”

“When?” Sherlock asked.

“When Mycroft stops paying my landlord to spy on me.”

“So never.” Sherlock concluded.

“Not never, just a few days from never.”

             I put the gun on my bed and tried to make a decision.  Half of me went one way, the other bit of me went the opposite.  It was like being pulled apart.  I didn’t like the feeling.  I picked up my cell phone.  Let fate decide, I whispered to myself.  If he answered I wouldn’t, if he didn’t I would.  I called.  It went to voicemail.  

             I left a message. “Irishman, it’s me, (Y/N). Listen, listen.  I’m sorry, but I have to cancel our date Friday.  You’ll find out why later, but for now, let me be the enigma, Irishman.”  I took the safety off.  

             For twenty minutes I stared at the gun.  I thought I heard a knock at my door.  I thought I heard someone call my name.  But I stayed on my bed.  I stared and stared and stared.  This indecision was going to kill me. I laughed at the thought.  I played Clair de Lune one last time on my phone and then shut it off.  I opened the cylinder on the gun and counted the bullets, three.  Three was a lucky number to some people.  I closed the cylinder and put it back on the bed.  

             I hated it.  It felt like he was winning.  It felt like the boy who hurt me was winning.  He was walking around out there, free and happy.  And I?  I was here. I was here.

             I heard something click.  Then there was a knock on the door of my room.  I shook my head.  It must be Sherlock, or it could be.  But why wasn’t he yelling right now, something about his revolver I stole? Then the door opened, and there was my Irishman.  He was staring at me.  His tie was slight rumpled, and his hair was disheveled.

             “Hello, Irishman.” I said.  “I thought I locked the door.”

             “Hello, love.  I always carry a bobbypin with me.”

             “Of course you do.”  

             We both stared at the gun on the bed.

             “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” I said.

             “You did call.”

             “True enough.”

             “And what exactly,” he asked, seemingly calm, cool, even flirtatious, “were you up to, love?”

             “The usual.” I shrugged.    The man sat next to me, and undid the waist button on his suit jacket, putting his head in his hands.  I was surprised, even frightened to see him this upset.  

             “I thought we had a date,” he said, loudly, each word colored with anger.

             “Rain check?” I joked.

             “That would imply,” he was almost yelling now, turning his face to me.  It was still calm, cool, put together. “That I could cash it.”

             “My money has never been good.” I joked again.

             He took the gun, turned the safety back on, and threw it on the bed.  “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

             “It’s not to you, Irishman.  And why the hell not?”

             “It would be undeniably poetic.  To not have the one things I have any interest in. To not even start the game.  Not even get a chance to play it.”  He was quiet now.  “So answer.  Why?”

             “Which part, exactly, of my diagnosis do you want?”

             “The part I can fix.”

             “None of it you can fix.  It’s not something you can tinker and toy with and bam! There’s a cure.  Depression. PTSD.  Anxiety.  If you have a cure for any one of them, tell me, Irishman.  I’ll try it.”

             “Why do you have PTSD?” He ogled.

             “Rape.” I said simply.  He stood up.  He stared. Hs face contorted for a second then cleared.  

             “Who, darling, who?”

             “Does it even matter?” I asked.

             “Just tell me!” He screamed.  I jumped and sat up.  The name slipped from my lips before I could think of a real, witty reply.

             “Richard Theo.”

             “Thank you, pet.” He murmured.  Then he took me in his arms and started humming.  It was a soft tune.  It was sweet and sad and I wanted to cry but I didn’t have the energy.

             He stood up after a moment, and went as if to leave.  “I’m going, pet.” He said over his shoulder, buttoning his suit jacket.  “I have things to do.  People to see.  But I will see you Friday.  And that will be that.  Exactly that.”  And he turned to me, glancing over his shoulder.  “And if you don’t show up,” he smirked, then the look melted from his face. “I have nothing to threaten you with.”

             “You do.” I said.

             “And what’s that?”

             I was honest, and upfront.  “Yelling at me scares me.  Threaten that.”

             His eyebrows went up and his mouth made a small ‘o’ shape.  “I’m sorry, pet.  I’m sorry.”

             “Just don’t do it.  And you can threaten me,” I smiled at him a little, “by saying you’ll miss me if I go.”

             “I would miss you,” he admitted, “with what’s left of my cold heart.”

             On Thursday I got another text from Sherlock. I ignored it, since I was at work. I got a few more texts and even a phone call.  After the store closed I looked at them.

             Come to the morgue. –SH

             Come now. –SH

             Not funny.  Answer.  –SH

             Missed call from Sherlock Holmes.

             I dialed his number and waited for a while. I was expecting him to be angry that I took his revolver.  Not this. Not a morgue.  What did it mean?

             “Y/N?”

             “Yes, Sherlock?”

             “Come to the morgue, now.”

             “I just finished work.  Why?”

             “I’m sending a taxi for you.”

             “As long as you pay, I’ll go.”

             “Just come.” He said.  

             The phone beeped as the conversation ended and he hung up.  I shrugged my shoulders and waited for the taxi.  I took it to the morgue, and there was John.  He paid and thanked the cabbie.  

             “What’s going on?” I asked John.

             “This is going to be a shock for you.”  His held the door for me as we walked into the morgue.  We were walking rather quickly.  The pace was hard on my knees after a day of standing at the register.

             “What’s going to be a shock?  What’s going on?”

             “They found one of your school friends. Sherlock wanted you to help with the case.” Greg joined us and continued our pace.

             “And how could I help?” I asked as we opened the doors to the morgue.  Molly Hooper and Sherlock were bent over the case file.  Molly waved at me and I reciprocated the gesture.

             “Anyone at school who might have had a grudge against him, maybe.  It’s an interesting case, shot with a bullet from a sniper rifle.  An assassination, it would seem. It was done by someone well versed in the use of this gun and very precise.” Sherlock put in, rubbing his temples.  

             “Who exactly?”  I asked.  John stepped aside.  My heart beat quicker.  My breath came faster.  I gripped the edge of the table Sherlock and Molly were seated at.  Mindfulness, part of my recited.  I was beginning to dissociate.  The world was slipping from my fingertips, everything sounded like an echo.

             “So, do you know him?” Sherlock asked, still not looking up.

             “Y/N?” John asked. “Are you okay?”

             “That’s Richard Theo.” I responded.

             “We know that, now what’s something new?” Sherlock asked.  Molly came to my side and held my hand.

             “What’s wrong, Y/N?” She asked.  

             “Grip my hand tighter, Molly.” I said.  She did.

             Sherlock finally looked up.  “Y/N?”  And he came to my side, too.  He grasped my face, holding my head in his hands.  “She’s dissociating.  The pupils are dilating.”

             “Dissociating?”  John asked.

             “Symptom of her PTSD.” Sherlock said.  “The body must have triggered it.  Must have reminded her of the boy-“

             “Sherlock, that’s him,” I said.  “There’s something you don’t know.  That’s him.  That’s him. That’s him.”

             “That’s who?” Greg asked.

             “That’s him.” Was all I could say. I repeated it over and over and over.  Sherlock wrapped one arm around my back and the other he kept cradling my head.  It was another gesture.  He was full of them these days.  

             “That’s who?” Greg asked again.  “What’s going on?”

             “I won’t be taking this case,” Sherlock said.

             “I thought you just said-“

             “It’s interesting, George, fascinating, but I won’t be taking it.  Have you incompetent police staff figure it out.  I won’t be taking it.”  I began to slip to the floor and Sherlock lifted me up.

             “Why, what’s going on, exactly?”

             “Family matters.” John said, taking my hand from Molly’s and squeezing it just as tight.  

They let me sleep at their apartment that night.


	4. Let's Take London

When I woke up I was in Sherlock’s apartment.  No one was there.  I made myself a cup of tea, a little bit of sugar and milk this morning. It had been a rough day.  I checked my phone.  The Irishman and I texted back and forth as I put the kettle on to boil.

I’m coming at seven.  Wear something nice.  I’m making London yours.  –Irishman

I still don’t want London.  Do you need another damn garden metaphor? –(Y/N)H

Darling. Really. –Irishman

Where are you? –Irishman

Sherlock’s.  Why? –(Y/N)H

Just curious. –Irishman

I heard that kills. –(Y/N)H

But satisfaction brings you back. –Irishman

I smiled and put my phone in my pocket.  I felt around and touched a metal barrel.  It almost made me jump.  I had almost forgotten I had put it back in my pocket. I meant to give it to Sherlock later on, without much explanation.  I couldn’t lie to him.  He knew when I lied.  That damn man.  

              I heard a knock on the door, and went to answer it, placing the gun on the counter and turning off the gas on the stove as the kettle began to whistle.  

              There stood a short woman with a good face, the kind of face you wanted to say you were related to.  The kind of face you wanted to see on Christmas.  

              “Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” I said.

              “Oh! (Y/N)! It’s good to see you.  I heard moving up there and I knew Sherlock left with John so I was wondering who was in.” She moved as if to hug me, and I pulled her in, embracing her.  We had met a few times, here and there when I came to visit Sherlock.  She was an extraordinary person.  She was kind.  She was well-meaning.  She was just good. She was like John.  Just so good.

              “Want some tea?  I just boiled a kettle.”

              “Oh dear, I don’t want to interrupt-“

              “You’re interrupting nothing.  Please come in.  Company would be lovely.”

              She moved in and seemed the glare at Sherlock’s mess.  “That man,” she murmured.  

              “He is a mess, isn’t he?” I laughed.  We walked to the kitchen and I got down a second mug, one with a small chip in it. She picked out a packet of breakfast tea and we sat together by the bar.

              “What’s Sherlock’s gun doing here? I told him not to leave it out.” She complained.

              “That’s my fault.  Just put it back.” I said, absent mindedly.

              “What do you mean?”

              Shit, I thought. “I took it for…”

              “Oh, (Y/N).”  Her eyes were wide, a little watery already.

              I couldn’t lie to her, so I said nothing.

              “You’re beautiful and kind and smart and-“ I wanted to run.  I wanted to run far, far away.  Back to apartment and lock the door and scream and cry and hit my head.  I wanted to run away.  I couldn’t stand the compliments she was telling me.

              “Mrs. Hudson, I should get back to my apartment soon. I hope you don’t mind if I leave you here.” I tried to move from the room.

              “Oh, stay a moment, (Y/N), talk to me.”

              “Mrs. Hudson, I’m awfully sorry.” I said.

              “Have I upset you?  I will have to tell Sherlock…”

              I nodded.  Of course she would.  I still sent anxiety crawling, clawing into my heart. “No, I upset me.  I’ve some of those things, you know, ‘beautiful’, ‘kind’, ‘extraordinary’, from some people.  Even some important people,” I was thinking of my Irishman, “But that doesn’t matter.  It’s not what I am that matters, with the depression.  I mean it does, but it doesn’t.  It sometimes does come down to who I think I am.  Even, occasionally, what others think of me.  But that’s not the root.  Those are the leaves.  You know? But moreover, it’s how sad I get. Unbearably so. And I imagine neutrality and all the world and-“  I felt her arms around me.  

              “Sherlock was so worried.  So was John.  When you were sick.  When you were in the hospitals and sick and they worried.  They worried when you run away.  They worry.  Sherlock doesn’t show it because he’s Sherlock and he’s got his habits and his ways of doing things- but you should’ve seen them darling.  Arguing about what to do and how to talk to you and debating the little things.  We don’t understand, (Y/N), but we care.”

              I hugged her back.  “I know.” I said. But I hadn’t known.  I didn’t know.  Had I been ignoring all the love?  I thought back on Sherlock’s gestures.  He was trying.  Trying very hard.  And I wanted to cry but I didn’t have the strength to, still.

              I slid into a pair of heels and looked into the mirror.  An old dress I wore to a gala Mycroft had had.  It was a soft blue, it was one shouldered and trailed a little behind me, before coming up and revealing my knees.  The effect, overall, with black heels and nails, boarded on a slight edge, a little something hard to it.  I spun once, looking over my back for wrinkles and lint, checked my hair, and responded to the text on my phone.

              I’m here. –Irishman

              Are you coming? –Irishman

I responded: Yes. –(Y/N)H

              I walked down the stairs and onto the street. There was a small black, but sleek, car. It had an edge to it too.  I expected nothing less.  

              “You look perfect, dear,” he said.  And he kissed me on the cheek.  The contact felt, well, too short.  I wanted something more.  But I didn’t ask.  I held my composure tightly.

              My Irishman was wearing his customary suit. He had on a black tie, instead of a blue one with a sensible print, as usual.  I noticed the small change.  It must be a formal event.  And I wanted to tell him I would be happy if we were to go back inside and just- take off our clothes.  Maybe make some food from the things I had in the fridge.  Lay on the bed.  Maybe kiss. Maybe more.  But composure, composure, I held it tight.

              “You look quite dashing- though you always have a suit on,” I replied.

              “I try to dress for the job I want.”

              “And what’s the job you want?”

              He smirked, a small look, and moved into the lane.

              “So where are we off you?” I asked.

              “As if I would tell you,” he chuckled.  “Ruin the surprise? Never.  Too dull for you.”

              “How do you know I’m not dull?” I threw back. “How do you know I’m not very much into the dull?”  I smiled. “How do you know I wouldn’t be contented with just sitting in my apartment.”

              “Just sitting?  Why, darling, I always imagined there would be much more interesting things to do with you if I was in your apartment.”

              “Like keeping me from doing stupid things?” I laughed.  

              His jaw clenched for half a second, recalling that night.  Then he was smiling again. “Or I could get you to do different things- I wouldn’t necessarily call them stupid.”

              “And what things would they be?”

              “I think we’re on the same page on what we would be doing.” He flirted back.

              “But I want to hear you say it.”

              “But I don’t want to put words on a thing that’s a lot more fun when hinted at.” He laughed.

              “And danced around?” I asked.

              “Exactly.” He said.

              We were quiet until we pulled up to an ornate, old building.  It looked well kept up, large, and imposing.  It was fancy.  No, fancy didn’t cover it.  Neither did rich or luxurious or magnificent or any of those words.  “And this is exactly?” I asked.

              “The beginning to our date.”  He responded.  I tried to open the door, but he locked my side and came around to open it for me.

              “Is it chivalrous to lock the door now?” I asked.

              “Only if you mean to open it.  In the end.” He took my hand, held it as I stepped out, and gave the keys to a valet.  Then he took my arm and intertwined his in mine and mine in his.  

              “Reservation,” he said to the man in a tuxedo.  “Under ‘Irishman’.”  I almost laughed aloud, but settled on a small smile.  My Irishman; my enigma.  How I adored it.

              He pulled out the chair for me as I sat, and I nodded in appreciation.  

              “So you, what exactly do you do?” I asked.

              “I kill people.” He said, quite seriously.

              “Ha, ha.” I deadpanned.

              “It is a bit of a laughing matter.  At least I was laughing at some points.”

              “We’ll have Haut-Brion.” He said to the waiter. I looked at the menu, and raised an eyebrow.  He had chosen one of the more expensive wines.

              “You know I drink, right?”

              “I hope you do.” He said.  “I plan to.”

              “And are we driving anywhere else tonight?”

              “You against drunk driving?” He asked.

              “I’m against killing bystanders.”

              “But not killing in general?” He questioned.

              “I’ll leave that up to the philosophers.” I responded.  “So seriously what do you do?” I asked again.

              “I told you.  I kill people.”

              “Like who?”

              “People who cause trouble.  For example,” his eyes flashed. “A man named Richard Theo. He caused a woman I have much appreciation for some trouble.”

              I put down my menu.  I wasn’t laughed now.  The color drained for my face.  He was serious.  He knew. That hadn’t been released to the public yet- he must have actually- he had saved all the women Richard could have hurt by continuing to-

              “I think I’ll be looking at the meat tonight, something rare and red.”  He glanced up for his menu.  “You look like you’ve fainted.”  His eyes narrowed, and seemed to start to roll.  “How bor-“

              “Thank you.” I finally managed.  Then I returned to my menu.  “It was very kind of you.  Very, very kind.  I think the meat looks good as well.”

              He glanced up again at me, and smiled a small smile.  “Oh, there’s you color.  You look alright now.”

              “Must have been a trick of the light.  I’ve never felt better.”  And I hadn’t.

              I took off my heels in the suite above the restaurant.  I opened the balcony doors and stared out.  You could see al the city- the world laid out in front of you.  It was beautiful.  All twinkling lights and promises.  

              My Irishman came up behind me. He kissed the nape of my neck.  “I said I would give you London, but you refused.  So I chose to give you my favorite view.”

              I could feel his hands trailing down my waist, down, down, down.  I felt the cool night air and the warmth of him and how the two conflicted.  He kissed a little further down on my shoulder.

              I slid off my heels, so I was more under his hands.  “You know,” I flirted, my heart beating a little faster, “the dress does unzip from the back.”

              “Does it now?” He asked.  “Fascinating.”  And his hands were on the zipper, slowly bringing it down, down, down.  I remembered how little I was wearing under it: nothing to be exact.  And the zip was slowly revealing more and more of my skin. Right as he got half way I started to turn around.  He moaned in response.  “I was in the middle of something, darling.” He complained.

              I undid the waist button on his suit.  He slid it off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground.  He step out of his socks and shoes.  We were moving away from the balcony, closer to the bed.  “Oh, you were?” I asked, playing with him.

              “I was, love, I was.  Right in the middle.”

              I undid the buttons on his shirt, and looked up at him.  His chest was becoming visible.  It was toned, strong, beautiful.  “And now what?” I asked.  His shirt was open to me.  I traced a finger down the middle of his torso.  

              “And now, this.” He said.  And grabbed me, simultaneously continuing to unzip my dress with one hand, holding my head with the other, and lips meeting lips, we kissed.  His tongue greeted mine and with were intertwined.  

              As I came I thought about how I was thinking of composure earlier in the night.  Fuck composure I thought, and yelled out in ecstasy.  “I love you, Irishman!”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He huffed, pressing against me.


	5. The Deadly Joke

   The next morning I woke up to nothing: my Irishman was gone and in his place was a set of heels, my dress folded carefully, put in a fashionable bag at the foot of the bed, a skirt and silken blouse.  I took a shower, enjoying the hot water.

              I slid into the clothes, realizing their richness.  It bothered me: I didn’t like my Irishman flaunting his riches.  That was not what I was interested in.  At least there would be no walk of shame.  I walked outside and was about to dial for a cab when one pulled up.  

              “Are you (Y/N)?”

              “Yes,” I responded.

              “I’m here to get you home.  The ‘Irishman’ has paid in full.”

              “Let me see your cabbie permit.” I instructed. I was being paranoid, yes, but the world ate people who were naïve.  The man showed me his credentials.  

“How long have you been waiting here for me?”

“Only about two hours.” He shrugged.

“I’m sorry for making you wait.” I apologized.

“He paid me more than enough for me to wait a little while.” The cabbie responded.  I got in the cab, and was back to my flat within the hour.  From there I went up and slid into cheaper clothing, and got my brushes organized and ready for a picture I had sketched out the other day. I was about to put the dollop of blue on the pallet, when my cell began to ring.  I picked it up with one hand and capped the blue paint.  “Hello?”

“I know you’re not safe, (Y/N).” Mycroft said.  

“Good morning to you, too.”

“I know you had Sherlock’s gun for at least 36 hours.”

“And how did you know that?”

“Mrs. Hudson has had her worries, and called Sherlock and I.”

“I’m okay, Mycroft.” I sighed.  I dipped my brush in the white paint and began mixing it with a little blue for a light cerulean.

“I want you coming home.”

“Mycroft, I’m not.”

“You. Are. Not. Being. Safe.” He whispered, harshly.  

“I didn’t use the gun, did I?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I hear you’ve been having visitors.” Mycroft put in.

“My landlord is being a good spy then?” I shot out.

“He says,” Mycroft continued on, not even to wonder how I knew, since it was probably like when we were kids and Sherlock let slip a detail and I used it against Mycroft, “the gentleman picked you up last night and came in during the hours you had the gun.”

“Yes, he’s been a good friend to me.”

“Who is he?  What name should I put on the flowers I will send him?  Your landlord doesn’t recognize him.”

“Honestly, I don’t even know who he is.”

“I would love just a name, (Y/N).”

“So would I.” I responded.

“So this gentleman really is faceless.” Mycroft said, a slight edge to his voice again.

“He likes his privacy.  Like you.  Like Sherlock.”

“But you know our names,” Mycroft argued.

“I doubt I would, except in papers, if I hadn’t grown up with you.” I exhaled.  The man was exhausting.

“Don’t be facetious.”

“It’s my natural state.  A default of sorts.” I shrugged.  My phone began to vibrate with another call.  I pulled it away from my cheek.  It was my Irishman.  “I’m getting a call from our unknown gentleman.  How about I see you for tea, sometime.  When you’re not busy, that is.”

“Good-bye, (Y/N), we’ll have tea at your flat at 7 o’clock in the evening on Thursday.”

“Perfect.” I said and hung up, answering the other call.  “Hello, Irishman.” I said.

“Hullo, pet.  Sorry to leave so early this morning.  Say you’ll forgive me?” The man on the other line purred.  

“I forgive you, this once.”  I rolled my eyes.

“When can I see you?” He asked.

“Whenever you want.  Within reason.” I replied.

“Meet me, then,” he said, giving me the name of a train stop.  “Can you take the train and be there at 3?”

“Is that when the train gets there?”

“Yes, love, yes.” He was practically giggling.  What did he have in store for me?

“I’ll be there then.  Look for me.”

“Oh, I will be.” He said and hung up.

I rolled my eyes again.  The man did have a taste for the dramatic flares in life.  I worked on the painting until 2:15, then walked to the train stop.  I took it down three stops and got off the train.  There he stood, in a navy suit, a phone pressed to his face.  Looking, to all the world, like a man in love.  I couldn’t help but be pulled to feel the same way.

“What are you playing at, Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, staring at him across the tracks.  John Watson was by his side.  Moriarty could have predicted that.  Of course he’d bring his pet.  The men faced each other, two glaring and the other playful.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Don’t you dare move a millimeter from that stop,” Moriarty chirped.  “I have a real surprise for you.”  

Sherlock moved a foot toward the tunnel that led to the other side of the tracks.

“Oh, and Sherly, if you do,” Moriarty said, “I’ll have Mycroft shot.”

“You couldn’t.” Sherlock said, but he didn’t move.

“Would you want to bet on that?” Moriarty asked, and laughed. Sherlock stood still.  “I thought not.” Moriarty finished.  A train could be heard coming down the track, a rumbling. “And here comes my surprise, Sherly. Don’t you take your eyes off of my spot.”

I got off the train and walked to the man, who was still on the phone. He put it down to his side.  

I could’ve sworn I heard my brother’s voice from somewhere, maybe my Irishman’s mobile, it said, “What game are you playing at?”

It couldn’t be my brother’s.  I brushed it off, and moved my body closer to my Irishman’s.

“Hello, Irishman.”

“Hello, (Y/N).  You look lovely as always.  Did you have a good night?”

“An excellent one.”  The train pulled away.  From across the tracks I heard a yell.  I went to turn, but my Irishman grabbed my face.

“Do you trust me, (Y/N)?” He asked.

“What’s going on?” I gasped.  His fingers were digging into my face.  It hurt.  It hurt.

“Do you trust me, (Y/N)?” He repeated.

“(Y/N)!” I heard a yell from across the tracks.  It sounded like Sherlock.  I heard it echo in the mobile, along with the words, “This isn’t funny, Moriarty, let her go!”

“Run, (Y/N)!” I heard John yell.  What the fuck was exactly going on?

“Moriarty?” I repeated.  Moriarty?  The name I would hear Sherlock and Mycroft whisper low to one another, and then their conversation would stop when they spotted me.  I knew that name.  I never had a face to put it to, but I knew the name.  I knew, from their worried, pinched expressions, that the man behind the name was bad.  Very, very bad.

“Do you trust me, (Y/N)?” He was yelling now.

I realized, right then, what trouble I was in.  I had fall in love so hard I had broken my nose.  And I broke my nose for a mad man, an absolute mad man.  “Yes.” I said, sincerely.  “I do trust you.”

“Do you love me?” He asked, a little quieter.  “Now don’t lie, dear, your brother and I can tell.”  With the other hand he raised the phone to my face. “Say it nice and clear.  Do you love me, Jim Moriarty?”

“You know the answer to that.” I said.

“I will be there in a second, (Y/N)!” Sherlock said from the other line.

“Remember! Mycroft!” Moriarty screeched.  I heard Sherlock’s breathing catch.

“But I want you to say it, nice and loud, so Sherlock can hear.” Moriarty said.

“Yes,” I was very nearly close to a panic attack, spinning out of control.  “I do.”

“Full sentences, dear, who do you love?” Moriarty asked, still gripping my face and the phone to my cheek.

“I love you, Jim Moriarty.  I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”  I was pleading, I realized, begging.  Begging for what?  Maybe my life.  

“Good, my love, excellent.” He released my face and used the same hand to pat my cheek softly.  He raised the phone to his face again.  “See, Sherlock?  Quite the surprise.”  He ended the call and stared at me, smiling. “Pet, that was awfully fun, wasn’t it?”

Then I straightened, and stared the sociopath straight in his insane eyes. “And you know the rest of my answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I love you, Mr. Moriarty, and-“ I paused, taking a deep breath.

“What is it, pet?” He asked.  

The nick name made me flinch.  “It’ll come.”

He glared at me, then softened.  “Still playing games, I knew I liked you for good reason.  A Holmes, through and through.  Well, I ought to be off.  Other, much more boring games to play.” He turned, and stalked off.  “I do expect you to finish you answer, though.” He called, and entered the back of another sleek car, and drove off.  

I wanted to fall to my knees, but instead I held stalk still. The world might fall apart, but in that moment, I refused to do the same.  

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said.  He hadn’t moved from his place by the window, staring out so intensely, it was like he was going to burn the city down.  I had explained in full my story, how I met Moriarty, every bit of it.  “I didn’t think he would drag Mycroft and you into this.”

“You aren’t surprised though,” I pointed out.

“No, that man is insane.”

“I want to go home,” I said.

“I’ll call Mycroft.” John put in.

“No, no.  I mean my flat.  I want to be alone.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea right-“ John started.

“I need to be alone.” I said, forcefully.  “I’ll call you when I get home.” I let their blanket slip from my shoulders and stood, walking out.  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m here.  Right here. 221B Backer street.  Not leaving all night.  If you need me,” John started, again.

“I’ll call.” I finished.

I waited for Moriarty.  I could predict he would show up, if he did in fact care for me.  If he cared, he would want the end to my answer. My mind was whirring: he did kill Richard for me.  He did seem to care, in a small capacity for me.  He would just have to give me a straight answer.  I would just have to test him.  It didn’t take long.  He was there in a few hours.  I heard a knock at the door, and went to greet him.

“Hello, Mr. Moriarty.” I said, standing aside so he could come into my flat.

“It’s Jim, dear.  Fucking makes us informal.”

“Hello, Jim.” I corrected.

“So what’s the rest of your answer?  I’m on the edge of my seat, darling.  Tell me.”  He played with me, moving in close so we were centimeters away from one another.

“Let me ask you a few questions, first.” I replied.

He waved his hand in the air, ‘continue’.

              “What was more fun for you,” I asked, “the night we spent together yesterday, or seeing Sherlock squirm when you had me?”

              “They were, surprisingly, about equal.”

              “Fascinating.” I added that variable to my equations to figuring out if he cared about me or not.  “So you do care for me, in some small way.”

              He looked at me, surprised.  “You Holmes,” he said, “have a way of piquing my interest.”

              “Then, prove it to me.  Prove you fucking care.”

              “And how, exactly, do I do that, pet?”  He glared down at me.

              “Leave, and don’t ever come to see me again. Play your games with my clever brother- fine- but if there is any love for me in your burnt up little heart, don’t ever see me again.”  

              He stared at me, dumbfounded.  “What, love?”

              “Leave, right now, prove it to me that you care, and leave.  And know if I ever see you again, I’ll finish my answer.”  I said.

              “And how would you finish your answer?” He was not laughing, not loving this game.

              “You know exactly how.” I said.  And looked away from him.  After a few moments of silence he left.  


End file.
